Ron Benrey - Grits And Glory

“Praise God for that.”

Phil’s booming voice overpowered the wind. “Praise God indeed for good news, Miss Trask, but not for the way that you deal with crises.” He brought his face inches from Ann’s, close enough for her to see raindrops dribble off his nose. “Your foolish stubbornness killed a wonderful man. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Ann flinched as the impact of his words hit home. Phil Meade blamed her for Richard’s death.

She pressed her lips together to control the fury she felt. No way would she give Phil a close-up view of her anger. She would behave like a professional manager, no matter what he said to provoke her.

Rafe stepped between Ann and Phil. “For the tenth time, Phil, you can’t blame Ann for Richard’s death. She didn’t bring down the steeple—that was Gilda’s doing. Hurricanes are dangerous. Everyone who stayed in Glory understood the risk. Including Richard Squires.”

“For the eleventh time,” Phil shouted, “there’s only one reason that Richard is dead. Ann Trask panicked when she couldn’t start the generator, because she’s too young and too inexperienced to handle routine problems.” He clasped his hands to his temples and shook his head, an extravagantly complex gesture that Ann read as a signal of his bewilderment.

“I don’t understand the leaders of Glory Community Church,” he said. “Why would you guys put someone in charge of your building during a storm if she can’t prime a simple diesel fuel pump?”

Ann felt her anger surge again when Phil spoke about her in the third person, as if she weren’t there. She leveled her index finger at him. “Richard kept the generator in good running order. We were supposed to call him immediately if anything went wrong.”

“If anything major went wrong,” Phil replied, with a generous wave of his hands, “or if circumstances truly required the generator to be operational. The very last thing Richard wanted to do this evening was leave his job at the emergency command center and deal with a trivial generator glitch. He did it because you don’t know diddly about diesel engines, and because you seemed scared stiff of the dark. That’s what he told all of us before he left.” He glanced at Rafe. “You were there—you heard Richard moaning and groaning about going to the church. Tell her I’m right.”

Ann’s anger quickly turned to concern. Rafe’s unhappy expression told her that everything Phil had said was true, which meant that Richard’s gracious “I should have tested the generator this morning” had been nothing but a polite fib, spoken to cover how he really felt.

That doesn’t change my reason for calling him.

Words came rushing out of her mouth.

“I called Richard this evening because I had to. A major hurricane was about to hit Glory. A backup generator is an essential piece of equipment at an emergency shelter. It has to work reliably. The generator was Richard’s responsibility, not mine. If he’d maintained it properly, I wouldn’t have needed his last-minute help.”

Ann watched a vein begin to throb in Phil Meade’s temple.

“You’re plainly inexperienced,” he said angrily, “but I didn’t expect you to also be mean-spirited. How dare you blame Richard for your own ineptitude?” He stretched to his full height and went on. “Shame on you! Richard deserves better than that.”

Phil spun around and made his way back to Richard’s body.

“I give up,” Ann said to Rafe. “Phil is determined to blame me.”

“Phil’s upset about Richard and not in a mood to listen to reason.”

She stood still as Rafe gently brushed away a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on the brim of her hood.

“Richard was in charge of the generator,” Rafe went on. “He often told people that keeping it running was part of his ministry at Glory Community Church.”

“Even so, I’d better smooth things over with Phil.”

“Good idea,” Rafe said, “but give him a chance to calm down before you try. He’ll come around after he’s had some time to cool off.”

Ann knew better. Phil might never “come around.” She had embarrassed him earlier by forcing him to back down. He was the sort of person who didn’t forgive and forget. Especially not now that he’d discovered her Achilles’ heel—her so-called fear of the dark.

“I started my new job at the church just a few months ago,” she murmured to herself. “The last thing I need right now is an influential enemy questioning my competence.”

God, why do You keep putting me in this position?

Sean felt something squeezing his arm. He opened his eyes and found a smiling nurse standing next to him, pumping a blood pressure cuff. A name tag clipped to her blouse identified her as “Sharon R.N.”

“How long have I been out, Sharon?” he asked with a yawn he couldn’t suppress.

“Six or seven hours, on and off. The doc stitched the cut on your scalp, ordered an MRI, and then decided you’d suffered nothing worse than a simple concussion and a painful bruise on your forehead. And in case you’re wondering why you’re yawning, we woke you up repeatedly throughout the night.”

Sean glanced at the window behind Sharon. He saw sunlight streaming through the panes and blue, cloudless skies. Gilda had moved on during the night, gifting Glory with a beautiful morning.

Her smile widened. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Blame the concussion. Your stomach might be touchy for a few days. But I do suggest you eat a light breakfast. This could become a busy morning for you. Rafe Neilson wants to talk to you and a woman named Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel began to call for you an hour ago.”

Sean had no idea who Rafe Neilson might be and didn’t really care. But Cathy McCabe, his producer, was another matter. “What did you tell her?”

“That I wasn’t your secretary and she should leave messages for you on your cell phone. She countered that she didn’t much like my attitude and that only an overzealous bureaucrat would refuse to give her any specific information about Carlo’s medical status.”

Sean chuckled. Like most executive producers, Cathy had a low tolerance for being rebuffed. He imagined the increasingly annoyed tone of her voice. There were a dozen different things she’d want to know—starting with Carlo’s health and moving on to the condition of the broadcast van and the pricey camera and control room equipment they carried. He decided not to call her until he had more information.

“What would you say to me if I asked about Carlo’s condition?”

“I’d ask you not to give me a hard time. You’re not Mr. Vaughn’s next of kin, are you?”

“Thankfully no.”

“In that case, all I can tell you is what we’ve told the forty or fifty reporters who’ve already inquired. We’re treating his injuries, which are not life threatening.”

She gestured toward an empty bed in the room. “He’ll be coming up from the ophthalmological treatment center in a few minutes, and then you can ask him yourself how he’s doing. I’m confident that he’ll be willing and eager to share.”

Sean laughed. “Ah. You discovered that Carlo can be a trifle full of himself.”

“A trifle?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re a master of understatement this morning. Fortunately, Glory is a gracious town, known for its Carolinian charm and civility. We strive to uphold our reputation even when challenged by an over-inflated northern ego.”

Sharon showed him a laminated menu. “Poached egg and some Jell-O for you?”

“Where’s the Carolinian charm in that?”

“All of our breakfasts come with grits and a biscuit,” she said.

“I stand corrected. Can I take a shower before breakfast?”